


Faith, or, Serpent In My Bosom

by CopperBeech



Series: The Education Of Mistress Aziraphale [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Breast Fucking, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, F/M, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Nipple Licking, Pearl Necklace, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Seriously Just Ruthless Smut, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Vaginal Sex, With A Few Unexpected Feels, blink and you miss the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Aziraphale gets curious about sex in a female corporation and Crowley, with experience, is happy to oblige. Along the way he indulges in a little teasing blasphemy, though he's not as comfortable when Aziraphale responds in kind.“Alexander’s mother was supposed to have nursed her snakes. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”“Wasn’t even in the area. Not a snake thing anyway. Urban legend.”“No one would know it to look at you, dear.”“Entirely selfless, what I’m doin’ here. Mmhm. Spirit of charity. Atonement for my many sins.”“Oh, certainly.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Education Of Mistress Aziraphale [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882369
Comments: 40
Kudos: 179





	Faith, or, Serpent In My Bosom

**Author's Note:**

> Pure smut -- well, sentimental smut -- written out of a sense of fairness after I'd turned out a [three-part series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828699) featuring naughty Nanny. It seemed as if I were neglecting Mistress Aziraphale, and that won't do. (Or as Crowley says, "Entirely selfless, what I'm doin' here.")
> 
> Owes something to Chapter 27 of gingerhaole's _Polaroids_ , [Husband And Wife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531924/chapters/55374355). The artist asked indulgence in the comments for femme!Aziraphale's uncannily sagless breasts because they were modeled on her own, those being works of, um, art in their own right, leading another commenter to remark that "the naturalness of angel boobs is debatable anyway." When the ideas of this fic began dancing like smutty sugar plums in my head I kept reverting to that image, and here we are.

“I said, angel, that I didn’t know how anyone could look at you without worshiping you.”

“It all ran together a bit. Perhaps your powers of expression are currently encumbered?”

(It’s true, his tongue gets away from him at times like this. He’s still thinking about going to work with the divided tip of it, what that might do to her, but she’s enjoying the process of discovery too much on her own right now.)

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate has bestridden the Great Serpent and borne him to the earth, or at least the mattress, where he pleads for mercy with a promise to serve her always (and, at least on this occasion, not come first; he has an agenda). It’s amazing how Aziraphale can look a right smug bastard even with white-gold curls tumbling down over her shoulders, smooth cheeks and a bosom that invites the notion of burying one’s face in it and going _brrr._ Perhaps later.

“Also, dear, that’s quite blasphemous.”

(There was a time, before the foiled Armageddon -- before _this_ \-- when the angel's reproof would have been less playful; might have meant the end of an evening, a week or a decade apart. Crowley still, at moments like these, feels pulled to test his good fortune, to demonstrate to himself that _they're on their own side_ now, that this is real.)

It should have been predictable: you spend six thousand years sparring, quarreling, aiding and abetting, getting away with dickens, fighting again and making up again, culminating in a giant double-fishhook to the bureaucracy of Heaven and Hell. When the epic bender afterwards – the Ritz was only the beginning – ends with you both passing out in a bed that’s never seen anything more torrid than a lonely wank and waking up already tangled in each other, both with pounding heads (bugger it, forgot to even sober up, it doesn’t matter) you realize you’ve been one reckless decision away from this for centuries and they’re not going to touch you now.

It’s been three months, and they’ve just barely slowed down; when Aziraphale said _dear boy, you do so seem to enjoy yourself when you take a notion to be my dear girl, will you give me some pointers?,_ the only condition was how quickly they could make it to the bedroom. The thank-you-for-indulging-me kiss had rapidly turned into a hungry, sloppy, prolonged kiss – the angel’s perfect, sharp little front teeth worrying his underlip just enough to make him imagine the sweet pain of a deeper bite; releasing it to brush over his mouth, face, throat as if cataloguing the sensations. Aziraphale loves kissing, and why wouldn’t she? Male or female, the angel’s weak for what can be tongued, tasted, savoured. Crowley always feels as if he’s some delicacy laid out across the damask tablecloths of the Ritz, or a picnic blanket (actually the case, on one memorable occasion).

Today she’s already dipped down to sample his cock, humming thoughtfully and making tasting notes, _hm, this corporation smells things a bit differently, how curious, you never mentioned._ Progressing from the nose to the palate, _tastes a little more complex too, you really are exquisite, you know,_ and for a moment he’d considered suggesting she go on to comment on the finish.

But she’s eager, kid with a new toy, and he’s not got it in him to object if she wants to straddle his hips and explore the shape of him with this freshly minted, slick body part. It’s just an investigation as yet, sliding back and forth along his length, fingers twined in his so he can prop her while she glides over him. He flicks his tongue out to get more of the musk-and-seawater scent as she moves slowly, thoughtfully, pausing to tease herself over the tip of his cock, skate back down to cover him in heat. The slick drag through the hair at the base of his belly is slow, luscious.

“Lean down a little,” he says presently. “Big girl, you, hands’re going to sleep.”

“You’re always so fond of sleeping, dear. Here I've barely got started.”

But she plants her palms on the sheets, and he digs his fingers into the padding of her hips, kneads and squeezes to show that _big girl_ is exactly what he wants. She arches her back like a cat at that, opening up her smooth white throat and lifting her breasts a little, an offer he can’t refuse. The nipples are broad enough almost to span his palm, pale-rose and silky, tightening under the circles of his cupping hands to peaks that are hard and tender at once, big enough to trap between his bony knuckles.

“Oh, those aren’t the slightest bit drowsy. You lied.”

“Mmmhm,” he answers, “demon,” although it’s a little muffled because his mouth is full now. The roll of her nipples between his lips, her reflexive intake of breath as he trails the forks of his tongue over one, the swell of her against his face: there’s just so _much_ of Aziraphale, and it’s all so soft. Now what’s between her legs is soft too, and she’s still using it to lick over him as if she could taste him that way.

“It’s like being ever so peckish,” she giggles presently, kneeling up, “I want you in there,” and that’s the cue for some teenage fumbling, because sitting straight down on him is _not_ the easy glide that it would be if she were he, and well worked open.

“Don’t say it,” she mutters peevishly after several seconds, biting her lip.

“Not saying a thing, angel.”

“You’re _thinking_ it _.”_

“C’mon back down here. It’s the angle.”

“It’s a bit new.”

“To be perfectly clear, you’ve never – ?”

“Ah – no, not like this.” One manicured hand gestures in a way that takes in her whole corporation, and what they're both doing with it.

“I’ve _seen_ you like this, I remember that time in Padua, and you modeled for old Durer, didn’t you?” He’s going to get his mileage out of this, she clearly wants something very much, and the way she’s astride him gives him a clear shot – thumb just inside, rubbing against the back wall of the delicious Effort that came with this corporation, just enough to tease and make her want it more. “Hope you didn’t include the messy bit then. Not necessary.”

“Ah – I don’t think so.”

“We’ll find out.” He’s palming the whole plump delicacy now, evading her wriggles as she tries to push harder against him. “Thought you knew a _bit_ about it. Always surprising me, angel.”

“I _have_ assumed this form before, I just didn’t, um, you know. Try anything. I was far less willing to, back in the day. Ah – one evolves – you’re doing this deliberately, Crowley.”

“I am. How did you ever keep horny mortals from coming on to you?”

“Well, it was for blessings in nunneries, that sort of thing. _Chaste_ environments.”

“That’s not how I remember nunneries.”

“Well – a bit of kissing. Nothing that would call for, um, a serious Effort on my part. The novices didn’t always want to be there – some of them were lonely-- “

“Mm-hmm. You going to tell me more?” He stops the movements of his hand, pulling back to the barest touch.

“This is extortion – “

“All right. Hold still. Here we are. Let me.”

There’s a little coolness by now, where she’s moved over him and away, leaving the ghosts of those damp kisses. She lets him shift her into position, sucks a soft breath as he nudges past that first sweet resistance, cues her to meet him: _all yours now, come down to me._ She moves her hands from the bedsheets to his shoulders to do it, and now he’s beautifully pinned, all that solid angel pressing him into the bed.

“Oh, my, you’re right. This _is_ good.”

“Told you. Here, give us a squeeze. You’ve felt me do it.”

_“Ooooooohhh.”_

Crowley seconds the sentiment. He’d forgotten for a moment that angels are uncannily strong; the random thought occurs that he may never get his cock back. Somehow, the prospect fails to distress him. She’s still gripping a little deliberately as she slides up and almost off, back down again a few times.

“Okay, not like that, I won’t last – this is for you, not me – t’s’not like taking me up your sweet bum, angel. We can do it that way if you like, but right now, not the point.”

“It’s good in this form?”

“ _Oh_ , yes.”

“Mm. Remind me.”

“Insatiable little trollop, aren’t you? One thing at a time. Come on back down here, gymnastic feats later – right up against me and rock, there we are – “ She’s tight, but plush; kisses against him as she settles, fills herself again, bears down with her weight. He can tell when she registers the drag of her clit over the small soft pad of his belly, hips beginning to pitch in a steady rhythm -- eyes fixed on something past his head, maybe something that only angels can see. Not that there’s anything wrong with the view from his perspective.

_“I shall lift mine eyes up unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”_

“Blaspheming again.” She pauses, breath shuddering through a few inhales and exhales. Those full breasts shudder right along with her. Pale flyaway hair gets in his mouth when he takes advantage of the proximity. “ _Oh Heaven,_ keep doing that.”

“Blaspheming?” Once again it comes out as a blurred melange of consonants.

“Just _that,_ ” as he pulls his thumb across her other nipple in time with her cadence. “ _Fuck,_ Crowley, you never told me – “ He knows what it means when she lets that kind of language pass her lips. She pauses. He doesn’t. He could do this all day. Not that he’s going to get the chance, because she rocks up one more time and bears down hard, clenches around him again and, not to be too nice about it, _yells_ as if she wants to be heard all the way back in Heaven (privately Crowley likes the idea). Huffs two more breaths off the top of her lungs and does it again, and he wraps his arms around the small of her back and pulls her to him, hard.

She slides to one side, heavily, when he lets her go.

* * *

She’s been breathing slowly since she tumbled off him, and he’s almost dozing himself when her voice comes to him in that echoing timbre that voices assume when you’re on the edge of sleep.

“Thank you. That was quite astonishing.”

“Could tell. Going to have to say something to the neighbours about you seein’ a spider.”

Those breasts are a remarkable sight from this angle: almost too large to cover with a hand, full hemispheres with none of the sag to either side you’d expect. “How d’ye get ’em like this? Miracle?”

“I don’t know, dear. They’re just what happens when I’m in this form.”

Her nipples are still a little peaked, the twist of meringue on top of a dessert. He dips and licks playfully, because it _is_ time for dessert; grazes over them with his lips, alert to any sign that they’re too sensitive now, but she only wriggles back into the pillows with something suspiciously like a purr. A little pinch, a flick with his tongue: that seems fine.

“Bet I can get you goin’ again.”

“Mm, yes, you’ve not finished, have you?”

“Neither have you,” he says, and thumbs the pretty things until she’s uttering a low long whine back in her throat, before bending his head to suckle leisurely, thoroughly. She jumps as he trails fingers through the curls at the base of her belly, draws back.

“Alexander’s mother was supposed to've -- oooh -- nursed her snakes. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Wasn’t even in the area. Mmphh. Not a snake thing anyway. Urban legend.”

“No one would know it to --ah -- look at you, dear.”

“Entirely selfless, what I’m doin’ here. Mmhm. Spirit of charity. Atonement for my many sins.”

“Oh, certainly.”

Crowley considers going _brrrr,_ and settles for an ophidian flicker between the two soft mounds. “ _Every valley shall be exalted_.”

“The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”

“You like it.”

The floor of the valley in question is just the width of the bone there, and he slides a finger from the dip of her clavicles to the first small soft roll of her belly, considering.

"Wouldn't work if it was me this way, but somethin’ we could try with you. First for me too, never fancied mortals that much. Pearl necklace, heard of it?” He’d slackened, drowsing beside her, but this idea’s got his cock’s attention. He returns to dessert, giving her a chance to consider, the gentlemanly thing.

“Mmm. One encounters the term.”

“ _Does_ one. Would that be in Bernhard of Clairvaux or Boethius?”

“Not _all_ the books I get into the shop are dusty old religious texts, you know.”

“Do tell, angel.”

“Well, for example one would – _ahhhh_ – open up a box that the family’d packed up in an estate sale. Great-uncle Reginald, bit of a lad in his time, you know, and there'd be a two-volume edition of _Bleak House_ – _ohhhh! –_ or an untouched set of Gibbon, and a back number of _The Oyster_ would fall out when you –– _fffffsssst!“_ This last because Crowley’s swiped three fingers through the folds of her cunt, swimming now with her own perfume and ointment, and begun to rub them along the flat plane of her breastbone, dipping back to smear one springy breast, then the other. She whimpers slightly as he straddles her ribs.

“All right, beautiful?”

“Oh _yes_.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but whatever it was, the heavy heat of her breasts surrounding his cock is better. It’s not very slippery compared to being inside her, but the slow tugging of soft skin, the compression as he closes them over himself with his hands, the unyielding valley floor between them: he’s clearly been missing something.

“Oh angel, _Someone_ it’s good, is this all right?”

He pulls all the way out, thrusts back into the fat cleft without pausing for her answer, which wasn’t what he’d meant to do. His flat belly's sealed against the undersides of her breasts, halfway to the navel. “Tell me what it feels like.”

“Like you’re – mm – sending that right down to my – they’re very sensitive, Crowley, didn't imagine – “

He drags a thumbnail slowly over the thick tip of one nipple, pulling a sound out of her that he's going to replay for all the remaining ages of the Earth; loses the beat for a moment when her hands steal in beside his, press her tighter around him, shifting so that he’s got resistance to fight every time he thrusts. Resting his hands above her head gives him more leverage, lets her tease herself with her fingertips, wearing the same look of half-lidded, transported concentration he’s seen when Aziraphale’s listening to a quartet or a string symphony.

“Ah, look at you. ‘d’love to watch you play with yourself. Can’t tell me you were like this off ‘n’ on over sixty centuries and never played with yourself.”

“Mmm. Perhaps if you’d be Nanny and _instruct_ me.” She squeezes herself around him hard enough he’s a little afraid it might hurt, except for the smile.

“Filthy little thing.”

“Not yet.” Her voice is getting a little breathy, head tilting back.

 _“Christ,_ angel.” There’s no comment on the blasphemy this time. She’s kneading both breasts as he works between them, trapping the nipples between finger and thumb, drawing them up to hard knots, hips moving in a languid counterpoint. Purses her lips on little sipping breaths as a faint pink flush steals down over her collarbones and into her cheeks. Whines far back in her throat, arches into that long hard glide of desire against her breastbone, and the buck of her body underneath him rocks him forward; there’s the ruddy tip of his cock sliding up where he might expect to see a locket or a cameo, vivid against her paleness, smearing a milky slick almost up to that little thumb-wide dip. The sight quickens his pace, and that makes her press back in harder, and that’s it, thank you very much, before he can warn her he’s sliding his last thrusts into his own spend, the sheen spreading over her chest in a little salvo of pulses.

After several seconds she giggles.

“Something funny, angel?”

He barely recognizes his own voice. He’s managing with just a fraction of each breath.

“It trickles. I mean tickles. Both actually.” Rivulets are trailing lazily down one side of her throat to the bedsheets, her chest glistens like the sugar glaze on a pastry. She skims two fingertips across it, brings them to her lips, and despite still being in the aftershocks of a hard orgasm he feels himself swell a little as she tightens her mouth around them and sucks.

 _“You send forth springs into the brooks, so they flow between the hills,”_ she murmurs, then looks up at him impishly. “If we’re doing this kind of thing.”

There’s no reason his throat should be full. There’s no reason his eyes should sting. But for a moment it is, they do, and sticky mess or no, he slides down her body and drops forward till their foreheads touch, kissing her as softly as those lonely novices must have in cloisters long fallen to ruin.

“Shouldn’t,” he says quietly after a long minute. 

"Shouldn't what?"

“Talk like I do. ‘S’my job, y’know, pissin’ Her off. Nothin’ left to lose, unforgivable, me.”

He trails a finger through the feathery hair fanned against the bedclothes. “You, you still haven’t Fallen, not even after everything. She might take you back some day, only angel who did the right thing? _This is my beloved Guardian of the Gate, in whom I am well pleased._ " He touches one finger to her lips, more lightly than a breath. "Don't y'ever imagine that? Think’ve the look on that wanker Gabriel -- ”

“Dear – what _ever_ are you on about?”

The serpent eyes don’t blink – they hardly ever do – and don’t leave hers. _You know._

“What if everything I want is right here, with you?”

He tries a smile. It almost works.

“Ah, feelin’ I get sometimes. When things’re too good. Sneaks up when I’m not expectin’ it, ignore me.”

“I _will not.”_ She turns to keep his gaze as he curls onto his side. “Not ever again.” Grabs a random hank of the disheveled topsheet, dries herself. “Come here, my sweet snake.”

She’s soft, and pillowy, and the scent his serpent acuteness picks up is his own and Aziraphale’s, commingled, inseparable.

“Still get afraid sometimes, y'know? Losin' you, maybe, or someone tryin' to hurt you, or... Or. Dunno.”

"Have a little faith, dear."

"Mph. Not 'xactly my area." Burrowing in, as snakes will do when they find a warm place.

“Listen to me. _They shall take up serpents, and they shall take no hurt,_ you remember that one? And _Whither thou goest, I shall go._ Also: _Anthony Crowley is a silly goose who worries far too much._ ”

It seems as if he’s drifting off, but there’s a last muffled sally as he settles: “Cheated on that last one.”

“I can cite impeccable sources.”

“ 'Cos you’re an angel?”

“No, my dear, because I’m a bookseller.” She folds him closer in both arms. “And you are the serpent in my bosom, and I love you very much. Now go to sleep."

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Durer, though his women didn't tend to be as chesty as Madame Aziraphale here, drew them sturdy and marvelously chunky. Crowley may have [modeled for him as well.](https://sammlung.staedelmuseum.de/en/work/adam-and-eve-the-fall-of-man)


End file.
